


in flagrante delicto

by lifefindsaway



Category: Hamilton - Miranda, Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Rating May Change, Tags May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-05-09 06:38:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14711006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lifefindsaway/pseuds/lifefindsaway
Summary: Washington learns the true nature of John and Alexander's relationship, to John's mortification.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [infearfulday](https://archiveofourown.org/users/infearfulday/gifts).



War was everything and nothing like John thought it would be.

It was not glamorous, but that much he expected. He’d spent a childhood reading Greek and Latin; he’d a good idea (much better, certainly, than the boys running away from home to join the army) what was awaiting him when he’d told his father that he intended to join the struggle to liberate their country from the tyranny plaguing it. The dirt and grime everywhere, the sickness and death on the battlefield and off—these things he took in stride.

That he had been taken into the great General Washington’s family he had also taken in stride. John’s father and his family’s relative wealth was enough to secure John a position of high standing, but his fluency in French and quick mind had done him no end of favors as well. Playing aide-de-camp to His Excellency was hardly the same as leading men to glory in a firefight, but it came with its own sort of renown. John might complain to Alexander of cramped fingers and ink stains as they labored over translations and letters, hurriedly took dictation, rushed off orders to all parts of the army, but—there was something to be said for being given preference in lodgings and first crack at the little special things that sometimes found their way into camp, either through the Marquis de Lafayette, or through gifts to His Excellency.

No, it was neither the war nor John’s distance from the action that he found insupportable. It was the lack of food.

John had never before been obliged to miss a meal in his life. There had been many times that he had willingly given up his supper so that he could continue his studies, or so that he might spend a little more time in the company of his friends, but, he had learned, going hungry by choice was far different than starving. And they were starving. It was cold, despite the snug little room he had taken with Alexander in the farmhouse the army had commandeered for a temporary headquarters, and they had little food, and even less ammunition, and John was hungry.

His stomach rumbled.

Alexander glanced up from the letter he was drafting, one eyebrow raised high. He was far too haughty for someone whose own stomach had made vocal protests on more than one occasion, John thought.

“Back to your writing,” John said, only the slightest flush touching his cheeks. He was embarrassed that he was not presenting himself as he thought he should: a gentleman unconcerned with taking a salary for his service, and untouched by the hardships they all suffered. “Take care, or I might surpass you.” John glanced at his own stack of correspondence, which he had been whittling down all afternoon and now well into the evening. He was almost apace of Alexander, though that would likely not last long. Alexander had a miraculous talent for dashing off letters.

Alexander ignored John’s half-hearted teasing and leaned forward, smudging the ink on the letter before him. “I might have something set aside,” he said in a loud whisper. They were alone, but Alexander did love his dramatics. “I was saving it for Christmas or, perhaps, the New Year, but I fear that I will be driven to distraction if I do not find some means of quieting your stomach.”

John’s flush grew more pronounced, his skin hot. “It isn’t all that bad, thank you. I would much rather finish these letters.”

But Alexander had made up his mind, and there was no arguing with him once he’d gotten an idea in his head. That much John had learned over the course of their friendship. It was one reason why he suspected they got along so well—they shared the same sort of reckless, stubborn nature, all too ready to rush headfirst into a plan, usually without sparing much thought for the outcome. It had served John well in battle. It served Alexander better now, as he set aside his ruined letter, plucked the pen out of John’s hand, and led John upstairs to their little room, moving with exaggerated care past His Excellency’s room.

Providence (or, more accurately, His Excellency) had conspired to put Alexander, John, and the Marquis, when he was in camp, together in their own room. They had pushed their beds together almost immediately, putting them as near the fire as they dared. It was a small, cramped room compared to those of John’s childhood home, but he had grown to revere them the same way he had once revered the majestic castles of Switzerland. He shut the door behind himself, leaning against it as Alexander bustled about, rekindling their fire and stripping out of his coat and neckcloth.

“Sit, sit,” Alexander said, waving John to the bed. “If we are going to drink on an empty stomach, we should sit—we’ll end up there anyway.”

John couldn’t argue with his logic. He removed his coat too, pulled off his boots. It was late enough that they should have already retired for the night, though they had an unspoken agreement to continue their work until it was finished. Now that he was settled on their shared bed, though, John felt exhaustion creep in, his body sore from hours hunched over a table, his fingers stiff and cramped from holding a pen.

“The Marquis forgot this when he left us the last time.” Alexander held a blessedly full, unopened bottle of rum in hand. He haphazardly let his hair out of its queue with the other. “I meant to share it with him, but as he has seen fit to leave us again, and as you will not give me a moment’s peace with your grumbles and rumbles, it seems a good time to open it.”

He stepped out of his boots, stumbling a little, and put them aside, opened the bottle and took a generous sip. Alexander was a poor drinker, John knew, and was amused when Alexander coughed.

“Come here, then,” John said. “Share.”

Obediently, Alexander came to sit by him. He drank a little more, then passed John the bottle, their fingers brushing as he handed the bottle off. Alexander leaned back on his hands, looking up at John through his eyelashes, his hair falling carelessly over one shoulder, down his back. His dark eyes glittered in the firelight as he studied John.

John drank deeply.

It was good. The Marquis had expensive taste. Despite shortages and blockades, he had a particular talent for sniffing out the best, most expensive things. John was particularly thankful for that talent now.

“This is not what I expected.”

“It’s good,” Alexander said. “You’ve forgotten what that is like.” He plucked the bottle out of John’s hands, had another mouthful, placed the bottle in John’s lap. He fell onto his back on the bed, one arm flung up over his head, the other across his stomach. “We have all forgotten how good things can be.”

John shook his head. He ran a finger along the lip of the bottle. It was warm from Alexander’s mouth and wet from the rum. “No, the war. It is not what I expected.”

“You mean scribbling notes and playing secretary is not the glory you expected to find?” Alexander said bitterly. “No, it is not what I thought I would be doing either, and yet here we are.”

They’d had this conversation before, and John had no interest in hearing all the ways in which Alexander was being wronged by not having a command of his own. He knew Alexander’s complaints by heart anyway. John brought the bottle to his mouth, imagined he tasted Alexander against the glass. He was growing melancholic, he thought, and when he’d had his fill, he set the rum on the floor out of the way so that they might not knock it over. He laid down next to Alexander and stared at the ceiling.

“Your father won’t answer my letters,” Alexander said after a little while.

John shrugged, his shoulder nudging against Alexander’s. He’d been asked about his father before, and had endeavored to convey the complexity of their relationship without revealing delicate details that would lead only to his ruin. Alexander could not trick him into speaking of it now no matter how clever he thought himself.

“His Excellency thinks you ought to write to him,” Alexander continued. “And I think he is right. Who better to beg favors from a father than his own son?”

That didn’t sit right with John. He had been certain that His Excellency and Alexander, as his chief of staff, had discussed John privately, if only to ascertain his place within the family, and his usefulness as an aide. But that they should continue, now that, in John’s mind, they were all so well-acquainted with one another… John’s jaw clenched and he said nothing. Alexander had been kind enough to share his rum. John wouldn’t repay him with an argument.

“Just think,” Alexander said. “If you write him in the morning and tell him of the poor conditions we now face, of how hungry you are and have been—I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he bettered our situation within a week.”

“No, Alexander.”

Beside him, Alexander pushed himself up on an elbow, His mouth was set in a firm line, his brow furrowed. He was gearing up for a debate, and John was tired and in no mood to indulge him.

“John—”

John tangled his fingers in the front of Alexander’s shirt, and pulled him down. Startled and off-balance, Alexander went easily, catching himself with a hand on either side of John’s head. His eyes darted down to John’s mouth, then up to his eyes.

“Shush,” John said. He drew Alexander down, closed the space between them, and kissed him.

Above him, Alexander relaxed, resting his full weight on John, pressing him down into the thin, hard mattress. It wasn’t entirely comfortable, but John was willing to put up with it in order to continue kissing Alexander. John felt he’d had more experience—certainly, he knew what to do with his tongue—but what Alexander lacked in one area he made up for with sheer force of will; he bit at John’s lower lip until John opened his mouth further. He shifted, aligning his hips with John’s, and mumbled something against John’s mouth.

John gently pushed Alexander away. “What is it?”

“I said, ‘I didn’t think you’d ever have the courage for this,’” Alexander said. “But never mind that. You’ve stopped. Keep going.” He pursed his lips, pouted. Tried to be enticing, though he didn’t have to try hard to arouse John’s interest. John generously decided not to take offense to what Alexander had said and to instead focus on busying Alexander’s mouth once more.

He lost time, more concerned with the way their bodies fit together and the bruising press of lips against lips. John knew without looking in his hand mirror that his lips were red, and probably swollen, and that thrilled him. He felt warm, a spark of desire slowly fanning into a flame that threatened to consume him.

When Alexander hurriedly pulled away, John was left with a sudden cool draft shocking him out of the pleasant haze into which he’d fallen, and a vague sense of confusion.

“Your Excellency,” Alexander gasped, his chest rising and falling as though he’d sprinted some distance; he’d stumbled to his feet, his hair and clothes a mess, and Alexander—all of Alexander—was standing at attention. General Washington stood in their doorway, expression inscrutable. He seemed merely to study first Alexander at length, then John, where he lay still sprawled across their beds.

John grew cold and scrambled to his feet.

“I see that you are...occupied,” Washington said. His voice was not cold, but it had not the warmness that he reserved for his aides, for Alexander and John and the Marquis especially. He shifted his weight, the only sign that he might be uncomfortable, and inclined his head. “I will—speak with you in the morning, Alexander. Good evening, gentlemen.”

He turned on his heel and left.

For the first time perhaps ever, Alexander was speechless. It was the first occurrence of such a thing, anyway, in the time that John had known him. He stood, pale and shocked, and seemed at a loss. John waited a moment, then one more, and when it became apparent that Alexander had no intention of following His Excellency and to beg forgiveness, John hurried out of their room and to Washington’s.

His hand shook as he knocked and waited for permission to enter.

After a brief eternity, Washington’s voice came from within, “Come.”

John took a deep breath, steadying himself. It wasn’t any different from going into battle. His life and Alexander’s hung in the balance. Except...Washington was not his enemy, and John suspected he would be willing to look the other way in order to preserve the lives of his indispensable chief of staff and the son of a prominent Southern politician.

He entered.

Washington sat in a chair drawn up to the fireplace. There was a chill in the house, a result of the loss of several of the first floor windows, and it was especially felt in the larger room that Washington had taken for his own. He reclined in his chair, his legs spread, his fingers idly tracing patterns on the arm of the chair. He stared contemplatively into the fire, a fine line creasing his brow. He didn’t meet John’s eye, nor turn to look at him.

John cleared his throat.

“You need not explain yourself to me,” Washington said. “I was perfectly capable of seeing for myself the nature of things. Little was left to the imagination.”

John flinched.

“I ask only that if you insist on...such pursuits, that you _lock the door_ , for the love of God. I cannot afford to lose any men. I cannot afford to lose men as vital to our endeavors as are you and Alexander. But if someone else brings this to my attention, I do not know that I can feign ignorance.”

“Sir,” John said, “there is no—”

“Thank you. That is all.” Washington waved a hand. A dismissal.

John pressed his lips together into a thin line. He pretended he couldn’t still taste Alexander, that he didn’t feel like shouting he was so anxious and worried and terrified of losing Washington’s good opinion, frustrated at Washington’s approach to their misconduct. He was angry that Washington seemed to think it wisest to deny what he had seen and to brush John off even though John felt compelled to speak of it, to make a case for what had been doing with Alexander.

John took a steadying breath and said, “Sir.”

Washington glanced over his shoulder, a sort of double take. Consternation and surprise warred in that august countenance, an expression with which John was all too familiar, which his father had perfected early in John’s youth. John stood a little taller, refused to give ground.

“Sir, what you saw—that is, Alexander and I—” John flushed, unaccustomed to stumbling over his words. He didn’t possess the gift for language that Alexander did, but he had always prided himself on his eloquence. He started again. “Alexander and I agreed to retire for the evening. We had a nightcap to relax and sleep easier. That is all.”

“Hardly.”

“Well.”

“I think I understand the situation,” Washington said, rising from his chair. He was an imposing figure and John suspected he knew it. He towered over John now as he approached him, carefully stepping around his chair and closing the distance between them. “I am not so naïve, you know. I am old enough that I know desire when I see it.”

John’s mouth went dry and he swallowed thickly.

“I need not emphasize the absolute necessity of discretion,” Washington continued. “It is one thing for me to find the two of you, but were someone else to make the discovery—I would rather not lose men upon whom I rely so heavily. You may leave.” He turned away, and this time John took his leave.

Alexander was pacing their room with quick, anxious steps. He startled badly when John pushed the door open, and bit at his already swollen lips. “Well?”

John sat heavily, the edge of the bed sagging beneath his weight.

“John,” Alexander said, “for God’s sake, now is not the time to hold your tongue. _Speak_. Do I expect a dismissal from service or my earthly body in the morning?”

“Neither,” John replied. “His Excellency was not pleased, but has shown us mercy. We are to put this all behind us.” He hesitated. Were he a better man, he thought, he would not pursue Alexander further. But Washington had not forbidden an intimate relationship, only advised extreme caution. “He begged us remember the lock next time.”

Alexander passed a shaking hand over his face. He looked every inch a man granted a stay of execution. “ _À Dieu soit la gloire_ ,” he murmured.

“Something like that,” John agreed. He found the bottle of rum where it had been forgotten on the floor, took a long draught, then held it out to Alexander so that he could crawl into bed properly. “Come, Alexander. Yet again you have defeated death. Dwell on it in the morning. My head aches too much think on it anymore tonight.”

Meekly, Alexander took the bottle and returned it to its hiding place, nestled among his clothes. He settled into the bed next to John, the space between them large enough to feel like miles, and reached for John’s hand. He squeezed it gently, then retreated to his side of the bed. “Thank you, John.”

“I have done you no favors,” John said shortly. “Sleep, Alexander.”

At his side, Alexander stilled, but John could tell from the pattern of his breathing that he hadn’t dropped off either. They lay silently in the dark, John staring at the ceiling and Alexander’s dark eyes staring at some point beyond John’s head, his gaze weighty even in the dark, even without John acknowledging it directly.

It was many hours before John finally fell into a restless sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

John’s head ached in the morning. The bed was already quite cold, and when he turned he found that Alexander already gone. This was not so unusual an occurrence; more often than not, Alexander rose before the sun, lit his candles, and began to write before John had even stirred awake. Still, it rubbed at John the wrong way and left him irritable, despite the half a pitcher of water Alexander had thoughtfully fetched and left for John’s use.

He climbed out of bed, stiff and cold. The fire had gone out at some point in the early morning—the fire was still smoldering, though it provided no heat—and Alexander had not lit it before he’d gone. It added to John’s sour mood. He quietly cursed Alexander as he splashed his face with cold water, cleaned his teeth, redid his queue, and straightened his shirt. He slipped into his coat and boots, adjusted his neckcloth, and poured the rest of the pitcher of water onto the fire.

If Alexander wanted to avoid him, John would not stop him. Though he thought Alexander’s plan might prove difficult if they were to continue working together.

“Laurens! Laurens, you look—awful. You look simply awful. Are you well?”

Aaron Burr hurried along the path, expertly weaving through passers-by. His uniform was immaculate, his boots polished. He wore his concern like a mask and it made John grit his teeth. Alexander liked Burr well enough for reasons John had never understood, but Burr had a curious talent for getting beneath John’s skin.

John continued walking, though he said over his shoulder, “I am well.”

“Laurens, slow down.” Burr caught up to John and fell into step with him. Their shoulders bumped with each step, jarring John from his reverie. “Alexander also seemed unwell this morning,” he observed. “He twice spilled his ink and was obliged to start his writings over again; I heard the shouting outside. It was...an inspiring display of creativity. I gather he had an unenviable evening and slept but a few hours. I had thought to inquire further, but—”

“Where is he now?” John asked, eager to quiet Burr. “I heard no shouting.”

“His Excellency was present and sent him away. On errands, no doubt, though he took Alexander aside to reprimand him, so who knows?  I suspect we shall not see Alexander again until well into the afternoon. Perhaps the late evening. His Excellency was not best pleased with Alexander’s display.”

“He would not be,” John said bitterly. He could feel Burr’s eyes, calculating, studying, and it took effort not to express his frustration in a more physical way. “Though I see no reason to punish Alexander.” Not for foul language, when Washington had settled for a harsh word in the past. No, this felt like a pointed sort of sentence, one which was meant to address Alexander’s perceived transgressions the night before. And all this  _ after  _ Washington had seemed to settle the matter with John. The corners of John’s mouth turned down into a sharp, unhappy slant. “At any rate, with Alexander gone, we will have to double our efforts. It will be a long day for the rest of us.”

“Yes,” Burr agreed, “but that is precisely the reason I have run into you this morning. I thought I might offer His Excellency my assistance in Alexander’s stead.”

“Ah.” John hummed. That Burr wanted to take Alexander’s place came as little surprise. Alexander had yet to see it, but John had mistrusted Burr and his intentions from the start. “You must excuse me.” He pushed past Burr and into Washington’s tent, ignoring Burr, ignoring, even, the meeting Washington was already having with Major Tallmadge. The tent flap fell behind John, brushing against his coat and the backs of his thighs as he strode forward.

“—and in this way I believe we may achieve—”

“A moment, Benjamin,” Washington said. He rose from his seat, one hand raised to silence Tallmadge, though his full attention was upon John. John met Washington’s eyes and refused to back down. He had been embarrassed and ashamed the night before. He was still ashamed, but now he was angry too that Washington had sent Alexander away before John could speak with him. “What is the meaning of this, sir?”

Behind Washington, Tallmadge fidgeted uncomfortably, and John’s frown deepened. 

“Sir, I will...see to the letters and the rest of it,” Tallmadge said after a moment, gathering up his papers and tucking them under one arm. He bowed first to Washington, then, a little uncertainly, to John. “I will have a report for you in a day’s time, should all go to plan.”

Washington kept his gaze fixed on John, acknowledging Tallmadge with a curt nod. He said nothing more until well after Tallmadge had gone. John swallowed, his heart pounding, and refused to look away, even as time stretched on and he felt compelled to move about or drop his eyes. The air felt charged between them; John closed his hands into tight fists and then opened them again, just to have something to do with his hands.

“I thought I made myself clear last evening,” Washington said eventually, calmly.

“You sent Alexander away,” John shot back. He paused, waiting for Washington to respond, and when he didn’t, continued, “If you are displeased, you could at least do us the honor of bringing your concerns directly to us instead of-of finding trivial reasons to punish and condemn. You sent Alexander away to punish  _ me _ .” His chest rose and fell rapidly, like he’d run uphill in the summer heat. His face was just as warm, too, flushed from his own impertinence. “You...implied that the matter was behind us, so long as we acted with good sense and evaded further detection.”

“I turned a blind eye,” Washington said stonily, “and in so doing granted you your  _ lives _ .”

“You gave your word.”

“I did  _ no _ such thing!” Seldom had Washington raised his voice in camp. Certainly never in recent memory, and never directly at or because of John. It was terrifying. Washington’s expression was furious, his voice thunderous. John flinched. Washington pressed on, low, deep, angry. 

John opened his mouth to argue. Washington narrowed his eyes.

John closed his mouth.

“Alexander was distraught, disheveled, and distracted this morning. He was bound to draw attention to his condition. Worse, to have someone ask the  _ cause _ of his state. After we spoke, he agreed it was better to spend the morning away from camp, to take time to compose himself.” Washington stepped closer to John. 

If he’d wanted to, John could have put his hands on Washington’s chest. 

Washington leaned closer and said, hardly louder than a whisper, “I am under no obligation to answer to you, nor to consult you before I give orders. I showed you favor, favor I have shown a precious few. You would do well to remember this, Laurens. Gather your things.”

He stepped away, leaving John blinking in surprise.

“Sir?” John’s voice was rough. He had the horrifying thought, for the briefest moment, that he might cry. He hadn’t cried since he was a child. He didn’t know what he was willing to do to keep from debasing himself in such a way in front of Washington.

“I have need of you elsewhere. You leave within the hour.” Washington returned to his chair, and to the letters there. He didn’t look at John again. “Report to Tilghman for your orders. That will be all.”

“Sir.” John swallowed thickly. He turned on his heel and marched out of the tent, nearly running into Burr, who lingered nearby, a maddeningly curious gleam to his eye. “I would leave him alone, Burr,” John warned. His words were unsteady, but, then, so was he. He hated Burr a little more for seeing him in a moment of weakness.  “He is pressed for time and patience this morning.”

Burr glanced at the tent, then trailed after John. “I heard His Excellency just now. I was able to discern a great deal of what he said.”

John’s breath caught in his throat and he stopped dead, mid-step.

“In fact,” Burr continued, unperturbed, “I believe his outburst to be connected to his display with Alexander this morning. What do you think, Laurens?” He circled around John, stopped before him. 

_ He knows _ , John thought.  _ He knows and he intends to use this against me _ .  _ God, against Alexander _ . 

“I am not the first to remark upon your close relationship to Alexander. Perhaps you are also involved.” Burr folded his arms across his chest and smiled, smug. “Have you nothing to say for yourself, hm?”

John shivered. He had thought Burr to be low, but he hadn’t thought him capable of this sort of behavior. “Burr…”

“Because I think that His Excellency ought to know the true nature of your...relationship with Alexander.” Burr patted John on the shoulder, a mocking facsimile of a compassionate gesture. His smile only widened when John shrugged him off. “Enjoy your time out of camp. God knows I will.” He gave John an appraising look, then retraced his steps to Washington’s tent, disappearing within.

"What the  _ hell _ , man," John murmured to himself, the moment he was alone.

Burr didn’t know anything, as far as John knew. It was speculation meant to needle John and maybe panic him a little, but nothing more concrete than that. He certainly didn’t have enough proof to present to Washington, though John didn’t trust Burr not to create problems for the sake of stirring the pot. Still...maybe it was for the best that John was having to leave. He resented being sent away like a child, and especially hated leaving Washington to Burr, but—if it kept Alexander safe...it was worth it.

John returned to the room he'd shared with Alexander as recently as the evening before and stopped in the doorway. Alexander's ink-smudged papers were still strewn across the lap desk he'd set aside on the floor. John wasn’t sure where Alexander had found it, but it was Alexander’s prized possession, and he’d lugged it along from camp to camp despite John’s teasing. He also had a handful of books that he’d left neatly stacked next to the lap desk. They were histories, mostly, of ancient civilizations. One was in French, another Greek. He'd read to John out of those books more evenings than John could count, slowed by his incessant need to share his remarks after every paragraph, and to ask John for his interpretation of some Greek word or another.

John sat heavily on the edge of his bed and rested a hand on Alexander's pillow. He imagined he could feel the press of Alexander's head there. When he closed his eyes, he could clearly see Alexander's dark eyes, his hair loose and framing his face. The way he'd smiled and panted against John's mouth. The warmth of Alexander’s body against his, solid and alive and vital in a way that John had never realized another body  _ could _ be.

"Damn it all." 

It was unfair that John had to leave because of a moment of weakness that he couldn’t even bring himself to regret.

His own belongings were as meager as Alexander’s. Neither of them had much in the way of clothing. He had a few books of his own that Alexander had not shown much interest in, only because they were in Latin. He also had a bag he’d carried from home. It was one of the nicer things that he’d allowed himself to keep after enlisting, a present from his father that had come with a few letters from home that John often reread, and a bottle of wine that Alexander had long ago finished for him.

It was also unfair that Alexander would return that afternoon and have to hear from someone else that John was gone.

After a moment's hesitation, John carefully set Alexander's work aside so he could use the lap desk. He drew a fresh sheet of Alexander’s paper onto the desk, then he sat down to write.  _ My dearest Hamilton _ , he began,  _ I fear you shall have to carry on without me for I intend now to assist you in ways that require my immediate departure from camp and the family.  _ John worried his bottom lip with his teeth. He could almost taste Alexander’s mouth on his own still. Maybe Alexander could taste him still too.   _ I regret leaving you without saying a proper goodbye, but trust His Excellency will keep you too busy to note my absence.  _ If Washington intended to speak with Alexander about the matter at all. John had his doubts. _ Be good, Hamilton, and ever mindful of your deeds.  _

There was a knock on the door that startled John almost badly enough to mark through his writing. He recovered quickly, irritation creeping into his tone as he bit out, “Burr, I swear to God, if you have anything else to say, I will have no recourse but to seek my satisfaction on the dueling ground.”  _ There are eyes upon you always _ .

“Try again,” Tilghman cheerily called through the door. He let himself in, raising an eyebrow at John’s occupation. “Writing love letters, are we?”

_ And you cannot count always on good luck to see you through _ . “Yes, I had nothing better to do, you know.”  _ Until we meet again, my deer. Yours ever, J. Laurens _ . John blotted his letter. “I was on my way down. Are you in such a hurry, Tench, that you could not spare me a few minutes?”

“I am not,” Tilghman corrected. “His Excellency, however, was adamant. You are bound for the south, and your father. It was, I believe, Hammie’s plan to have you appeal to Congress on our behalf, no?”

“Yes,” John folded the letter, tucked it away in Alexander’s lap desk for him to find upon his return later in the day, “and I told him begging would do us no good. I will not resort to it.” He returned the lap desk to its rightful place, piling Alexander’s writings upon it once more, and resumed packing, shoving his papers and spare shirt into his bag with a little more force than strictly necessary. “Congress has done as much as it is willing to do for this army, we know that now. Our energy would be better served recruiting more men—”

“Save your abolitionism for someone capable of assisting you,” Tilghman said, cutting John off. He looked supremely unimpressed. “I have heard this speech too many times from Hamilton.”

“Because it is important.”

It was something that had bound John and Alexander early on, their shared interests and philosophies. Tilghman and the others had never really caught on, nor appreciated John’s opinions in quite the same way Alexander had, nor had they ever offered to write essays with him. They had certainly never supported any of John’s more far-fetched, dreamy plans in the way that Alexander did. 

“Oh, aye. Of course it is. You won’t hear me argue against either of you, but you know as well as I that those penny pinchers would rather fight than give up the bulk of their labor. Not when it would ruin thoroughly ruin the economy.”

“There is more at stake than turning a profit. It is an immoral practice,” John replied.

“Perhaps, perhaps.” Tilghman seemed relieved to find a change of topic, and escorted John downstairs and to the small dining room. “ Here now, let us find you something to eat lest you starve before you convince Congress to keep  _ us _ from starving, eh?” They found one of the serving girls clearing up from breakfast, and Tilghman easily charmed her—“Our John rides this very day to free your brethren in the south; spare him a bit of bread and pork, girl?”—into providing food for John’s journey. 

“Do you really, sir?” she asked, wide-eyed and a touch suspicious. 

“Go on,” Tilghman said, annoyed. “Hurry so that he can be on his way.”

She hastily left to do as she was bid.

“That was poorly done,” John remarked with a frown after she’d returned with provisions and gone once more. “You deceived her for nothing, and grew agitated when she believed you.”

“It is the spirit of the thing,” Tilghman insisted. “Besides, you would very well do exactly as I said, were you given your way of things, and we have little time to spare.” He led John outside. He’d had John’s horse readied, and a boy waited with her near the house. She stamped at the ground, impatient and restless, and trying unsuccessfully to pull away from the boy’s hold. “Come, now. Washington was in a foul mood and if I keep you here too long, I fear he will be discontented. That is to say, more discontented than he is already.”

John bit his tongue to keep from saying any of the things that first came to mind. Let Washington feel as miserable as John did; he was the one who had thought it best to send Alexander away without a word, and now John. Instead, John ran a hand down the flank of his horse. It did little to soothe her; he supposed she could sense his own disquiet and he regretted upsetting her. She had always been excellent company.

After a moment, he mounted, risking a moment to look for Washington’s tent. To John’s surprise, Washington stood there, watching impassively, his face impossible to read at this distance.

“I told you; he is impatient to have things done today,” Tilghman said, following John’s gaze. He waited a beat, then said earnestly, “Listen, Laurens, be careful, won’t you? We all know you have a reckless streak a mile wide. If you go off and get yourself killed, well. I will be angry with you, you should know.”

“Did you not know? We are presently at war!” John laughed a little unkindly. It wasn’t Tilghman’s fault he was caught in this thing between Washington and John, but John couldn’t help but resent him too. He urged his horse forward, looking down on Tilghman’s worried face. “I can make no such promises.” 

John rode out of camp without so much as sparing another glance in Washington’s direction.


End file.
